


Costume Party

by pocketmouse



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, F/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-26
Updated: 2010-07-26
Packaged: 2017-10-10 19:56:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/103679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketmouse/pseuds/pocketmouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PWP. Theoretical missing scene, from the party in the photograph in The Pandorica Opens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Costume Party

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to such_heights for betaing this for me. Also, this is for the kink_bingo uniforms/military fetish square.

"What do you mean, costume party? Why can't we just have a quiet night in?" Rory asked. A quiet night, maybe a nice meal, do something with the velvet box he'd had shoved in his sock drawer for the better part of a month.

Amy pouted at him, that mocking one that meant she knew she'd get her way. "Oh, Rory, but it's Halloween! Who has a quiet night in on Halloween?"

Who proposed on Halloween? He shook his head. "Amy, we're British. We don't celebrate Halloween."

"Rooooooorrrrrrry." She sighed and planted herself in his lap. "That's not the point." She punctuated her words with a stab of her finger to his sternum. He tried not to move much. "The point is you should come out and have some _fun_."

"I have fun," he protested.

Amy rolled her eyes. "Real fun."

"I do!"

She grinned, and he realized he was trapped. "So prove it." She sprung up, already headed for the door. "Come on, Annette's going to let me into the costume shop, the theatre's got better stuff than the store."

Rory gave a silent groan as he followed. At least he wouldn't have to worry about finding another way to ruin bruschetta.

* * *

"What about this one?" Amy asked, pulling another costume off the rack.

"No, Amy, I'm not going to be a mariachi band member," he said absently. "I'm rubbish at musical instruments."

Amy put the poncho back on the rack. "Well, they don't have a lot in your size, so you can't be too choosy."

Slight movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. He moved across the room, curious. "Anything else?"

"Mmmm... There's a sailor costume, but I'm not sure if it's your size. Besides, didn't you do that a year or two ago?"

"I did, yeah." Amy had made a joke about seamen, as soon as she was drunk enough. He'd rather not have a repeat of that. He eyed the costume on the end of the rack carefully. Still swaying slightly where something had brushed against it, it was a fully kitted-out Roman centurion costume. Most of the other outfits they'd been browsing through were only partially put together, just the shirt and trousers, or a single piece outfit. But this was everything all together, cape and armor and all, boots and helmet on the shelf next to it as well.

"What about this?" he asked. He pulled the cape off the hanger. It was heavy, the material coarse and weathered, like someone had actually used it. He swung it over his shoulders experimentally, and for a moment he thought he could smell grass and mud.

"Where was _that_ hiding?" Amy asked, making a beeline over to him. She had a familiar gleam in her eye.

Rory shrugged. "It was just on the rack over here." He held the armor up for closer inspection. "Looks like it'd fit pretty well, though."

Amy picked up the helmet, its red brush bobbling back and forth gently as she placed it on his head. "Ladies and gentlemen, I think we have a winner," she said triumphantly. She kissed him on the lips, and Rory did feel pretty triumphant.

* * *

He'd forgotten, unfortunately, how much he kind of got into the whole dressing up thing. Reading Heinlein and Bradbury because Amy dressed him up in a shabby dress shirt and tie. The way he always did better on the tests he'd worn his scrubs to study for.

And it wasn't like he'd decided he was a bloody Roman soldier or anything. But he had managed to convince himself to have a couple more beers than he should, and there was the slight possibility he'd used his staff to trip up Edward when he tried to hit on Amy. It was a good staff. He was glad he'd come after all, he thought.

"Right, Mister Centurion —" Amy clapped a hand on Rory's shoulder and he startled, turning around to face her. "I've had several reports of you disturbing the peace, and an accusation of not enough public nudity. Do you want to take a turn around the dance floor, or are you going to come along quietly?"

Rory's mind actually blinked for a second. For all that Amy liked dressing up, she usually didn't play these games with him. Especially now that it was her job, and she knew how he felt about _that_. But — it was a bit thrilling, and the officer's uniform _was_ very distracting. And it wasn't like she ever had any truly _bad_ ideas.

"Officer, do you have any jurisdiction over a military officer?" he asked, feeling a bit cheeky. He trailed a finger up the closure of her vest. "Could I see your credentials, please?"

Amy yanked down on the strap of his armor, nearly sending him stumbling before he put his arms around her shoulders for balance. She kissed him, deep and messy and thorough, tongue sliding easily against his and stealing his breath away.

"Yes, I suppose that will do nicely," he said after giving himself a moment to recover, and let her lead the way to the dance floor.

* * *

Amy smelled amazing. "Officer Pond, you smell _amazing_," Rory mumbled into her hair.

Amy laughed. "Keep walking, Rory, we're almost there." Rory groaned in complaint, but did as she instructed, the streetlights providing enough illumination for him to find the pavement, even with everything blurry and his helmet askew. Nice thing about tiny little Leadworth, it was small enough you could walk home from the pub to almost anywhere. Lovely. Rory watched Amy as she walked in front of him.

"Someone should call the police, because you look gorgeous," he said. "Wait, that's not —" Amy was laughing. "Why are you laughing?"

"Oh, Rory," she gasped. "You are the most entertaining drunk I've ever known."

There were, he supposed, worse things to be the best at. Though he didn't think he was that drunk. "Just as well, I already have your number."

She took his hand. "Very true."

He looked at her hand in his. He felt stupidly happy. And, well, a little stupid, really, which was probably the beer.

There was something he was going to ask her, but he couldn't remember what it was. Later, then. He squeezed her hand. "What's the hurry?" he asked. "First you didn't want to leave, now you can't wait to get home."

Amy turned and looked at him over her shoulder. "You've been walking around all evening in a kilt and you really have to ask that question?"

Rory blushed as he felt her gaze rake him up and down. "Right. I'd forgot about that."

* * *

Rory's breath left him in a whoosh as Amy pushed him down onto the bed. She sat straddling his chest, looking quite comfortable. She plucked at the strings of his cape, undoing the knot, and brushed the fabric from his shoulders. Rory shivered a little, and his hands wandered up her thighs, fingers creeping under the hem of her — very short — skirt.

Amy drummed her fingernails over the breastplate. It made a metallic clinking sound. "This really is well-made for a theatre costume," she said.

"You're really interested in the costume right now?" he complained.

Amy smirked. "I like the look," she said. "It's sexy." She shifted down a little. "How about it, Rory? You want to be my kissogram?" She leaned down and kissed him, hands sliding under the armor as best she could.

"Rather be more than just a kissogram," Rory managed, before she kissed him again.

Amy was a fantastic kisser, and she took her time about it, kissing Rory like she had nowhere else she'd rather be. Small kisses, nipping and tugging at his lip swelled into wet, open-mouthed messy exploration. Amy drew back at last, frustrated by the armor. "Does that mean I don't get the costume?"

"It means I like you even without the costumes," Rory said, forcing his hands to stay still. Amy blinked at him. "Though actually, if you wanted to keep this one, I really wouldn't mind," he said after a moment. He reached up and undid the top button of the blouse with one hand.

Rory could feel Amy relax slightly. She always found it much easier to talk about sex than feelings, though Rory was just bad at both. "Well. I'll keep those handcuffs in mind for later, then." She reached up and freed her hair from its bun, letting it fall forward.

"I think that sounds like a good idea," he replied, mouth feeling a little dry. He continued unbuttoning her blouse, from the bottom this time, as she worked from the top, until their hands met in the middle, fingers tangling, fighting and shoving playfully until Rory pulled free. He shifted her forward, hands on her arse. Amy gave a squeal as she tipped forward, the metal of the armor better for sliding than she'd anticipated.

"Hello," she said, breathless, hands planted on either side of Rory's head.

"Hi," he said back, reaching up to mouth at the soft skin of her stomach.

Amy leaned into it for a moment, then pushed back suddenly. "Off, off --" she said, sinking to one side before Rory realized what she was doing. "Armor. Off."

"Right, yeah," Rory muttered, immediately reaching to lift it off over his head, which was quicker than trying to remember how the straps worked. Amy's hands followed right behind, pushing up the tunic beneath it, already having divested herself of her own shirt. She was wearing a pale pink bra, which looked soft and delicate and out of place compared to the short black skirt and stockings she still wore. Amy was almost never soft and delicate.

She sat back on the heels of her hands, looking Rory over. She did that from time to time, and he always wondered what she saw. Sometimes it felt like she saw something different every time.

"What?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Nothing." Then she smiled, a sparkle in her eye. "Just admiring the view."

Rory was going to say something about actually feeling a bit ridiculous, but he didn't get a chance to before Amy pulled him closer until they both hit the mattress again, and really he didn't want to think about it right now. Things tended to go better when he didn't have time to overthink things. Amy's kisses demanded his attention, and her hands, wrapped around his shoulders, encouraged him to put it aside.

Hands on her hips, he rocked against her, angling and encouraging until she moaned into his mouth. Amy was always vocal and pushy and Rory loved it. He was hard as a rock. Breaking away slightly, he slid his hands entirely under the fabric of Amy's skirt, sliding them down her hips, taking the stockings and her knickers as well. She was already deliciously wet, hips moving restlessly as he kissed the inside of her thigh, mouthing closer. Her hand stroked through his hair as he pressed closer, teasing her with external pressure.

"Rory, this is not the time to _slow down_," she growled, forcing him to back up as she kicked off her leggings.

"I'm pretty sure you disagreed last time," he said, but took the condom she handed him, putting it on quickly. He wasn't about to complain at her choice. The kilt went sliding off the bed to join the rest of the armor on the floor.

"I'm not allowed to change my mind?"

"I'll have to think about it," he offered, "maybe take a survey." Amy laughed and smacked him in the chest lightly. "All right, maybe not," he amended. His hands traced down her sides, one sliding along her thigh, gripping, promising, opening her up before he slid inside her.

Amy gasped and groaned, hooking one leg behind him. He thrust slowly, adjusting to her tight heat. It was so good, always so good. She bucked underneath him, dragging him closer. He hid his face against her neck for a moment, breathless, before kissing her again — collarbone, jaw, lips. She nipped at his lips and rocked harder, forcing him to up his pace. He was slamming into her, outright fucking her, and Amy was chanting encouragement, "harder," and "yes," and "more," nails carving crescents into his skin as she manhandled him in turn for her own satisfaction, words tumbling out faster and faster until they were almost unintelligible, culminating in a frantic shout as she curled herself hard around him, every muscle contracting in a spasm of ecstasy. Another moment or two and Rory was coming as well, stars exploding behind his eyes.

Pulling away at last, Amy stroked his arm, and kissed him softly on the cheek. She murmured something unintelligible. No matter what the stereotypes said, Amy was more likely to drop off after a good round of sex than Rory was. He slipped from the bed, disposing of the condom and straightening their discarded clothes, leaving them folded on the dresser. Maybe returning the costume to the theatre could wait.

His fingers dropped to the handle of his sock drawer. Tomorrow.

He slid back into bed, tucking Amy's hair behind her ear. "Love you," he whispered.

Definitely tomorrow.


End file.
